#don't usually post my writing on tumblr

[catieconqueso]

Of where we'd end up at the end of it...

An Apollo x Grace Oneshot (4k words) I wanted to explore the Veil a little further since its really only mentioned as this ominous thing that happens when a new Idol rises. So here's a not-so-quick one shot featuring Grace dealing with the effects of the Veil.

Usually I only post my writing on Ao3, but since there's no Stray Gods tag yet, posting this here instead. (Please be nice! I don't usually post my writing here!)

She’s still sitting on the couch, clutching a cup of iced coffee that’s more water than coffee, when the light switches on and bathes the apartment in soft golden light. “Grace?” Freddie’s standing in the doorway stuck somewhere halfway between the doorframe and shoving her keys into her back pocket as she stares at the only occupant of a room that should have been empty. “What the hell are you doing here?” Grace doesn’t answer, not at first, just stares blankly at Freddie as she flicks her wrist over and over to swirl the liquid in her coffee cup as if it were the only thing keeping her from floating away. And it was. “Didn’t know where to go,” she finally admits after a period of silence that has just begun to border on uncomfortable. “And I still had my keys, so I thought…” She trails off, the thumb of her free hand stroking along the golden sun hung around her middle finger.

“Gods, Grace,” Freddie exhales as she toes off her boots and climbs onto the couch beside her. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Why didn’t you call?” She doesn’t need to ask who ‘we’ meant, not with the two dozen missed calls and texts left unseen on her phone—Freddie, Kaz and Brian, Oracle, even a voicemail from Persephone, who’d merely informed Grace that she’d go to the Underworld and kick her shade’s ass if she was lying in a ditch somewhere. And beneath all that had been a single text of garbled capital letters and punctuation that had begged her to please come home. That it was okay that she was mad at him, that he just wanted her to come home. “I…” She begins, throat aching and raw from hours spent choking down tears and screaming into whatever pillow was closest. “I…” She starts again, swallowing thickly over the lump of emotion that threatens to choke her, but the words won't come out no matter how hard she tries. Some Muse she was, unable to string together a couple sentences worth of an excuse so she could go back to wallowing in her self-pity alone. So instead, she hands Freddie the coffee cup. Grace tries to ignore the way her hands shake as she does so. She tries even more to forget the name written in looping ink that taunts her from between Freddie’s outstretched fingers. “Grace, what are you…oh.” For all her trying to hide it, Grace easily clocks the exact moment when Freddie’s confusion devolves into pity. And then into hesitant worry as she tucks the cup into the couch cushions beside her.

“The barista asked for my name,” Grace explains, thumb still working impatient circles into the gold ring on her finger. “And I said it was Calliope.”

It had been such a little thing, an off-handed moment that shouldn’t have meant anything— a slip of the tongue. And it's not like she didn’t know this was coming, not with all the gentle touches and easing into the newness of it all. But she’s starting to lose more bits of herself day by day. She’s taken to drinking tea in the morning instead of her usual overly sweet coffee, even though a month ago, the bitter taste of it made her want to puke. And that the sound of ocean waves has begun to remind her of a summer spent some time in the 18th century wrapped in the warmth of the sun while lying naked on a bed of sand. That the scent of the newly sprouted cherry blossoms lining the entrance of Olympus reminds her of Paris in springtime, even though she’s never even left the country. But most of all, it's that two days ago, she looked in the mirror and for a split second didn’t recognize the face looking back.

It’s how it works. We all went through it, kid. Persephone had told her that night over too many glasses of whiskey beneath the neon lights of the Underworld when Grace had taken to drowning out the feeling that she was a stranger in her own skin with whatever booze she’d been able to get her hands on. Didn’t Apollo warn you?

Of course, Apollo had warned her. He’d spent every waking minute preparing her for the moment when Calliope would come rushing in like the tide on mornings they’d gotten up early to watch the sunrise. Just gotta let it happen, Grace. I’ll be there waiting on the other side when it does. Stupid, sweet Apollo, who’d been nothing but achingly gentle when Grace wanted nothing more than to rage against the shit hand that fate had dealt her. Had soothed the storm that swirled inside her when all she could think about was ending the cycle just so the next Calliope didn’t have to watch helplessly as everything that made her Grace slipped away. “Oh, Grace,” Freddie breathes out as she settles a warm hand on her knee with a watery smile. “I…” Freddie swallows, testing her next words on her tongue before she lets them free in a rush of an exasperated sigh. Cause it's not like this is the first time Grace’s disappeared for a few days, only to reappear as though nothing were wrong, still riding on the tail end of a bender. “Does Apollo know?” Grace shrugs and sinks into the couch cushions as though they were swallowing her up, and she wishes they would. “We’re not exactly talking at the moment,” she admits with a pang of guilt she hasn’t felt since she was a kid and her mom caught her sneaking out to go to some concert with Freddie.

“Grace,” Freddie repeats, fingers stroking along the swath of bare, pale skin that peaks out from beneath the hole worn into denim over her kneecap. “I think you should…” “I know Fred,” she interrupts, again letting her thumb trace over the golden sun, “it…I said some real shitty things to him, not sure he wants to see me.”

He wanted her to come home so he could take care of her 'cause that’s all he did— he took care of her when all she wanted was someone to see her, to hear her. Had pacified the storm in her until it was nothing more than a breeze and had reduced her walls to rubble so that he could easily crawl inside. When he tried to clean up the broken pieces of the mirror, of her cracked and broken sanity, she’d thrown it back in his face. Called him a coward, had accused him of wanting Calliope and not her, that he’d stuck around to ensure that every last piece of her was replaced. And patient, kind Apollo had remained silent as he wiped the gore from her knuckles with gentle touches and soft presses of his lips to her bloodied skin. But they both had been too stubborn to apologize. He’d once warned her so long ago outside of the Underworld that Idols liked to hold grudges. And they’d both become so good at holding onto theirs like a lifeline in a swirling sea. So instead of speaking, of putting the weeks of fear and confusion into words, she grabbed her jacket and left with a half mumbled excuse that she needed air. Had spent the next two days splitting her time between the Underworld and the uncomfortable leather of the couch in Persephone’s office.

“Persephone kicked me out,” she explains when Freddie presses the cold beer bottle into her waiting hands. “Said I either had to deal with my shit or start paying for my drinks.” Grace pauses to take a comforting swig of alcohol and finds that the taste makes her teeth ache. Yet another thing Calliope’s taken from her. “And instead of going home, you decided to break into my apartment?” Freddie sips gingerly at her beer as she fixes Grace with a look that says she can see through the bullshit, excuses, and lies. “Said I still had the keys.” Grace folds in draws her knees up to her chest, and settles her chin on the rough fabric of her denim-covered knees. It's all she can do to shield herself from the words that tumble from her lips. “I’m losing myself, Freddie,” she admits, her words rough and ruined by the tears that track down her cheeks. “And I’m scared.” Freddie doesn’t answer, instead wraps her in a warm embrace until Grace stops shaking and her breaths are no longer heaving, choking sobs. And Grace is thankful that, for the first time in three days, she no longer has to pretend that everything is okay. That she can finally put into words the aching, raw feeling in her chest that she’s tried so hard to drown out with whiskey. They don’t talk, don’t need to. Not that she wants to. She’s had enough of talking, of rationalizing every little thing that’s been happening to her. For the first time in three days, Grace permits herself to feel anything other than the bitter numbness she’s masked her fear with. And she drowns herself in it. It's not until hours later that she resurfaces from her grief, warm and blanket wrapped amongst the sheets of a familiar bed.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice roughed by lack of sleep and three days of worry. The same worry he wears in the swaths of purple beneath his eyes and the unruly stubble that creeps down his neck. “I…I…” His hand rubs the back of his head and musses the golden curls that have been reduced to snarled tangles where they hang limply over his ears. He’s nervous, she thinks, watching as he repeats the gesture before fisting his hands into the fabric of his pants. “It’s good to see you.” He leans forward to settle his hand on her bare leg, where it peeks from beneath the blankets, but she’s faster as she draws her legs back beneath them before she can feel the heat that radiates off him. She’s wearing nothing but her underwear and one of his t-shirts, which, all things considered, was a blessing because Grace was certain her clothing reeked of cigarettes, booze, and the Underworld. Apollo sighs in reply and lets his palm settle over the still-warm sheets where her legs once rested. For a moment, his eyes flutter closed like he’s a junkie, and the warmth of where she’d laid is enough to soothe his craving to touch her. But there’s an ocean between them now, more profound than the one that swells and ebbs outside the bedroom window where she’d once felt safe. And the thought of his too-large, too-warm hands on her makes Grace want to crawl out of her skin.

“How did I get here?” She sits up, greeted by their bedroom that still looks exactly as she’d left it three days ago. His shirt still haphazardly hangs across the dresser from when she’d ripped it from his shoulders and tossed it over hers, and her bra’s still tucked halfway out from beneath the chair he sits upon. Both tell her it's the first time either of them has set foot in this room since she stormed out. “Freddy called me.” Called Oracle, she thinks, cause even with her patient prodding, Apollo still balks at the idea of using the simple flip phone she bought him. She knew he’d been desperate to find her when he’d resorted to texting her himself. But that’s not enough to soothe the rage slowly creeping up to settle on her shoulders. “Gods, it… it's been three days. I thought maybe you…you’d…that…” Apollo’s voice cracks with the weight of his guilt as he looks at her with the kind of desperation that quiets her storm. Her already broken heart rents and breaks as the weight of his words settles heavily on her shoulders. He’s already failed her, Calliope, once before, again, and it would break him. Maybe it's the year spent in the company of the god of prophecies, but for a moment, she’s granted a prophecy of her own, a hazy vision of Apollo soaked in sunlight as he walks into the sea with no one around this time to save him. “Sorry,” is all she can manage to say as she sinks deeper into herself. “I meant to call.”

“Meant to call?” His visions gone golden as his anger wells up, raw and fierce. “Fuck, Grace” he growls, hands tearing through his hair, “I…I thought you were dead!” Her own anger crackles beneath her skin in response to his because all they do anymore is fight. He’s the god of the sun, golden flames lit by the festering rage between them, and she’s his muse, her passion, the kindling that he burns through. “Obviously, I’m not,” she shoots back. Suddenly the rooms too hot, too stifling, and the blankets a band of iron keeping her tethered to the bed, to him. She throws them off, throws off the crushing weight of the guilt that threatens to snap her already fragile shoulders. “Not sure why you were so worried.” “Cal…Grace,” he starts, stumbling over the name. He’s just as unsure of which face she wears as she is. Today, it's Grace, but she knows that that won’t always be true in the future. Eventually, Grace will ebb with the tide of the Veil until all that’s left is Calliope. He’s done it a hundred times before, acts like it's nothing, that she should surrender to it all without putting up a fight. But Grace? This is her first time, and she feels like she’s constantly drowning beneath the weight of the eidolon in her chest. And Apollo’s the lifeboat she can’t quite reach. “You need to talk to me,” he sighs, hands, at last, settling on her bare calves, and Grace finds the warmth of his skin is just a touch more soothing than revolting.

“Nothing to talk about,” she answers, hiding behind the mask of monosyllabic answers. “It's fine,” she adds though she knows it to be untrue. It’s become easier and cleaner to lie to him than to lean on the still-strong bond that’d formed between them, and Grace’s found that a lie was often the most straightforward answer. Cause she doesn’t want to look at him and see disappointment reflected back where once shone love and pride. He doesn’t buy it. He never buys it. Instead, Apollo wordlessly slips into the bed beside her, his too-warm body curling over hers as though he could shield her from it all. And she lets him, too worn down and exhausted to protest, when his arm settles around her waist and pulls her against the hard planes of his body. “Talk to me, Grace,” he whispers softly into the crown of her hair. “Please.” Her shoulders finally snap at the weight of his words, so tender and warm, and she begins to cry. It feels like all she’s done is cry. Like somehow she’s thrown a lifetime of emotion into the past week and has come out the end worn and raw, with only her tears left to show for it. Breaking down still feels foreign, even after a lifetime of grief condensed into the span of two years, and she folds into herself in the hope of quelling the bitter tears that track down her cheeks to pool in the cleft of her collarbones. “I don’t,” she sobs, sinking into his embrace, “I don’t know how.”

Apollo’s patient, kind as he holds her, the only sound breaking the silence between him are his soft mummers of comfort and her hiccoughing sobs. “Shh, I have you, darlin’,” he breathes softly into the skin where her neck meets her shoulders. “I have you,” he repeats, fingertips gentle as they curve over the swath of her belly from where it peeks from beneath her stolen shirt. “Don’t need to talk just yet.” She thinks of using her powers for a moment, that she might be able to put her thoughts into song than she can words. But she does need to talk. Needs to get out the words that hang heavy in her chest. “I’m scared,” she finally admits when her tears no longer strangle her words. “Apollo, I’m so scared.” Her admission is deafening, her heart pounding in her ears. She’s always been the strong one, the rock, Grace, who everyone can depend on to swoop in and save the day. Vulnerability doesn’t come easy to her, even in front of Apollo, who’s seen her stripped down to nothing so many times that she’s lost count. Apollo, who’s laid himself bare in kind, even though she’s only ever held him at arm's length when he asked her to do the same.

“Shh, Grace,” he repeats, arms tightening around her as if he could shield her from the Veil itself. “I know you’re scared, but you need to talk to me.” He shifts her gently, as though she’s made of glass, until they are face to face. It's then that she realizes he’s been crying too. “I…I called myself Calliope today,” Grace answers, suddenly ashamed that such a trivial thing’s caused an ocean sized rift between them. It's not like any of this came as a surprise. It's not like she’s had a year of Apollo’s patient tutoring to prepare her for the eventuality. But that didn’t make the fact that she was slowly slipping away any less jarring. He chuckles, though it's hollow, forced. “The first time’s always the worst.” They’re not quite touching anymore, the ocean that separates them swelling up between the gaps where their skin should be flushed and entwined. “You’ll get used to it.” But she doesn’t want to get used to it, doesn’t want to feel like a stranger in her own skin. The thought of hearing Freddie or Persephone, or Gods, even Apollo calling her Grace, and her no longer recognizing her own name made her want to puke. It made her feel like she was that last bit of pencil that hadn’t been erased yet. It was inevitable, but waiting for it to happen, Gods, that was the worst part. “How,” she challenges, her anger towards him, Calliope, and Fate itself flaring hot and scorching beneath her skin. “How do I get used to not being me?”

Apollo smiles, gentle, patient, and soft, as he brushes her dark hair from her cheek, the touch coming after what feels like a lifetime of waiting. “By letting me in, Grace,” he answers, shifting so his lips can whisper soft over her own. His hand is warm as he cups her chin and forces her to look him in the eye. And for the first time that night, she meets his cool gaze willingly. “By not doing this alone.” Grace melts into the touch, lets herself feel safe, lets the weight of the past three days slip away until she’s light as air. “I…what if you don’t love me when I’m her?” It feels strange to put it into words, the dark thought that lingers about the edges of her. It used to be a seed, tucked into the earth unseen, but it's festered, grown into vines that wrap around her wrists, ankles, and, worst of all, her heart.

She’s fed it with the doubt she pretends not to see in his eyes when they get into a fight. Feeds it with the knowledge that between him and Calliope is a lifetime of fighting and reconciliation. With the fear that no matter how hard they try, it still won’t work out in the end. That, like Calliope, she’ll be alone. “If it didn’t work before, why now? Why are we any different, Apollo?”

Apollo kisses her instead of speaking, drawing her beneath his weight with warm hands heavy on her waist. “Grace,” he murmurs, facial hair tickling her skin as he peppers kisses along the curve of her jaw. “You are kind,” he pauses to press his lips to each of her cheekbones, “and caring,” another kiss to the tip of her nose, “and braver than anyone I have ever met.” His lips are soft when they meet the skin of her forehead. “And for all her fire, Calliope could never burn away all of you.” He chuckles as he settles his full weight atop her, stunned when she lets him. “You’re too stubborn for that.” “That doesn’t mean anything,” she grumbles, too warm beneath him. Apollo, God of the Sun, burns hotter than a furnace as Grace relents and every bit of her sinks into him. “You said yourself, eventually, she’ll take over.” “And,” he answers, words muffled as he tucks his head into the crook of her shoulder, “I also said I’d be here the whole time.” His teeth are gentle where they nip at whatever bit of her bare neck he can reach. “And that this time it’d last, but you seem to have forgotten that detail.” “Apollo,” she warns when his hand slips down her side to trace the curve of her hip. “Grace,” he parrots with a smile just as dazzling as the golden rays of sunlight streaking through the curtains. “Do you want to know something?”

Grace groans and wiggles her hips until she finds a comfortable spot beneath him. Difficult considering all of Apollo’s muscled bulk dwarfed hers by about a mile. But If Apollo’s in one of his romantic moods, well, then she’d better be settled in for the long haul. “Not sure if I do,” she grouses. “Think you might want to hear this.” Apollo pauses to tangle his fingers in hers. But fuck, his hand fits perfectly over hers, impossibly warm and just a shade too large. “You know that Calliope and I always found each other, even after our eidolons passed to the next person,” he explains, thumb stroking over the matching sun rings they wore. “That even if she and I were worlds apart, our souls would always find each other again.”

“I’m not really sure what this has to do with me,” Grace interrupts, suddenly very much aware of the one-sidedness of their memories. Course, the slate would be evened out when the Veil lifted, but she still sometimes caught Apollo staring at her with an unfamiliar reverence that spoke to memories she had yet to unlock. Like the reason he always wanted to sketch her lying out naked when they’d awake in the morning after a night of making love. Or the story behind the song he’d sing softly into her hair as they dozed watching the sunset on the sand.

“Because you, Grace,” Apollo murmurs. “My sweet, kind, brave, stubborn Grace. You’re the only one who’s captured me wholly, body and soul. We won’t have to find each other because we will never be parted. Not even the Fates would be enough to take me from you.” “You’re only saying that because you’re the one who insisted we get married.” She rolls her eyes at this slip into melancholia that’s sweet enough to make her teeth ache. But her heart still swells until it's impossible full at the love that shines in his eyes as he tilts his head down to capture her lips in a tender kiss that leaves the pair of them gasping for air when they finally part. “Grace or Calliope, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be here for you, no matter what.” Apollo’s gone soft, less stoic in the years since she’s met him. She knows he hates the romantic streak she’s carved into him, but it doesn’t stop the grand declarations of love he likes to wax to her at least once a day. And the longer she spends with him, she finds she doesn’t hate them, not at all. “Til the last star burns out of the sky.” “But what if it doesn’t work out,” she asks, guilt and doubt still lingering in her thoughts. Despite his assurances, she suspects it’ll be a while until they finally subside. “What if it stays the same?” “Then we’ll work through it together,” Apollo answers as, at last, Grace relaxes beneath him. “And if you still don’t believe me, I promise you that I’ll be here the whole time.” Grace smiles in earnest for the first time in three days as she finally surrenders to the joy and love that radiates off him like rays of sunlight. “I’ll hold you to that.”

[coquelicoq]

what i like especially about the pronouns in the goblin emperor is that this language doesn't just have the T-V distinction (aka informal vs. formal second-person pronouns, in this case 'thou' vs. 'you'), it also has informal and formal first-person pronouns. having BOTH of these distinctions in the same language lets you fine-tune your tone by mixing and matching. with only one axis of formality, when you use informal pronouns, are you being familiar in an intimate way, or in an insolent or dismissive way? when you use formal pronouns, are you being polite or standoffish? you can't tell just from the pronouns; there's ambiguity. but a language where you can use a formal first-person pronoun in the same sentence as an informal second-person pronoun allows you to distance yourself (via the formal first) while also being familiar (via the informal second), thereby achieving the conversational tenor known to linguists as Fuck Thee Specifically.

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

choke the girl to get her: rosquez [e]

There it is—a faint little shiver running the length of his body, a sheen of silvery sweat pooling on his throat, Marc’s spit-shiny lips falling open, slack with hunger. His eyes are keen, electric, pinning Vale in place.

Another man would’ve gone for plausible deniability.

Lights off. Hidden faces.

Marc, ever the psycho, digs his nails into Vale’s hip hard, thumb splayed over his tattoo. He hisses at the scraped raw flash of pain—of course there’d be pain—and jerks against the cradle of Marc’s thighs.

The heat is obscene. Marc had always run hot, he remembers, but inside him is disorienting, scrambles all of Vale’s thoughts. He fumbles for coherency first, his tongue coarse and thick and slow, and decides against speaking altogether. Pants wetly instead, shaking with the struggle of not moving. Much. Someone needs to be careful, and it’s not going to be Marc.

He leans forward. Marc’s fucking eyes are still on him, so Vale grabs the hair on his nape and pulls—tips his head back to suck a mark on the hinge of his jaw.

Marc goes tighter around him. Feverishly sweltering. Vale grunts and flinches, a minute, knife-to-the-guts sway that gets him deeper inside. The room around him blurs.

“Can you just,” Marc breaks off, frustrated, jolting against his grip.

Both his hands grab Vale’s waist, and his legs lock in around the back of his own. He wrangles Vale like his bike—moves him and uses him. Each time he’s made to fuck in is tiny and torturous. Marc’s chest heaves with breath, his brow furrowed. He might as well be having a religious experience, Saint Teresa with her angel, being cleaved open with a flaming arrow.

Vale bites on the jut of his collarbone, leashing back a searing whine. He has of couple of inches on Marc—in Marc, ha—and it doesn’t matter. If Vale manhandles him, it only happens because he wants that. Not a revelation, but it still lands like out-breaking himself into the gravel, that Marc lets Vale play with him marionette-style. He scrabbles for air. For the fleeting string of his sanity.

“You can’t take it easy once in your fucking life,” Vale bites out, strained.

Marc had been tense around his fingers, expression guarded and laser-focused. Is tense now, around his cock, skirting the edge of hurt—he has a strangle hold on Vale’s nerves and gets mean with it.

There’s a laugh, dizzy, punch-drunk. “You always knew that,” Marc states.

And so what?

Vale huffs. He rubs Marc’s quivering sides, moves in gentle ripples. Tries to make him unclench. Tentatively, one of his fingers slides down the V of his stomach to settle over Marc’s hole, where he’s spread wide and obscene, rubbing against his sensitive dick as he pushes in.

He’s gentle there too. Keeps it slow and featherlight even through the pound of blood in his ears.

Marc relaxes a fraction. The wobble of his frankly indecent mouth goes from voyeuristic PT/self-martyrdom video to sex. Vale wants to freeze that moment—then feels magnificently stupid and shoves the hard wash of sentimentality away. Focuses on the dirty grind against Marc’s ass.

The light in Marc’s eyes is ardent, dangerous. He strikes out like a wild animal and grabs Vale’s other wrist—his bones creak with the strength on that hold. There’s a flash of white—his teeth—before he brings it to his face and presses a kiss on the soft, fragile skin there. Vale watches. Can’t tear his gaze away. His heart is an erratic, arrhythmic hum inside his chest.

And suddenly it spikes.

Marc oh so slowly puts Vale’s hand around his neck. A strangled thing pours out of him, and there must be a line between his prickling palm to the throb in his cock. His vision narrows down to this, only this, only ever this. He feels like he was wired wrong. And he remembers—

“You fucked me better when you were angry, Valentino,” he says, saccharine with viciousness, and swallows. Vale tracks the flow of his throat with his fingertips.

“Christ,” Vale manages to spit out, shivering. And then:

“Fine, fine.” He aims for magnanimous and misses by a mile, words pried laboriously from him. “We do it your way.”

They’re historically good at making it hurt. This—this toothless, age-worn version of them, skirting around old wounds, honey-sinuous—is pretty new. Awkward.

Vale gets Marc’s thigh over his shoulder. Bends him in half and spreads him wide. The vision he makes is cheap and sweet-sticky and—shit. His thrusts pick up, the noise of skin-on-skin deafening in the shrinking room. Marc tips his head back as far as he can, a moan caught on his tongue, lashes fluttering madly over his cheeks. Handsome. Because of course he is.

That never changed.

His hand flexes once around his throat. Just a flicker, a promise. Marc’s eyes widen, and he freezes. Like this, he looks younger. A lot more reckless. Vale needs to stop thinking about it.

When he squeezes, Marc’s spine arches off the bed, chasing that harm with a wild-eyed, sloppy dizziness. He spills a noise that’s half plea and half grunt. Vale is hyperaware of every single one of his knuckles, of the strength cording his arm. Marc isn’t.

Despite that, he holds on to Vale’s elbow and—

Marc shoves back against him—scratches him, the bite of his nails fiery, and bucks riotously —until Vale grows cruel with the choking. Holds on, going cold and burning as Marc starts writhing, his eyes huge, chest heaving convulsively. The space between them reeks of this ugly, cleaved-open desperation.

Once he lets go, they lick into each other’s mouths, graceless, starving, no pretense to hide behind.

Sex with Marc has always—

The first time they did this was in Motegi, maybe, he thinks frantically, unable to resist choking Marc again, lost in a helpless undercurrent of bitterness he’d tried to curb for the span of tonight. Vale had gotten pole, but Marc shrugged—smiled shark-like, unapologetic, the same old tune of 2016—and said I’ll get you anyway. I’m winning my fifth.

His head goes taffy thick. The next memory is him pressing Marc against the door of his motorhome, his bottom lip stinging and bleeding and staining them both red, his hand like iron on that neck, squeezing hard.

Vale wishes it weren’t so easy to hurt Marc.

(Wishes Marc didn’t chase it so much.)

“Can you save the guilt trip for later?” Marc hisses, his voice wrecked to hell already, the shape of Vale’s violence engraved on his golden skin. It’s a mind fuck, how much he wants to tear him apart, squeeze enough to have Marc crying, begging.

His stomach swoops. He’s so close to coming his vision starts to blur.

Marc’s mouth—infuriating, insolent—is still bent around the next complaint. The next needle he’s going to shove under Vale’s skin. He reaches blindly for his cock so he won’t. Brash displeasure stutters, and his face fractures and softens with an unfiltered, unguarded desire. Whatever he manages is a jumble of fluid Spanish that crashes around Vale like Kingdom come.

Time sloshes around them, a frizz of champagne. Marc eases finally now that Vale has one hand on his dick and the other pressing down on his airway. Sinks into sensation and sighs.

When he comes, he does so with a flutter of a wrecked sound, barely anything, struggling for breath. His stomach trembles, his legs too, and the stark white coating his flushed dark cock and his tanned abs makes Vale ache to lick it up.

Marc is scorching hot on his dick, a delirium, and Vale’s thoughts tangle around nothing, finding no purchase—look at you and Jesus Christ and fuckfuckfuck.

He lets go of Marc to brace himself on the bed. Buries something that tastes an awful lot like I love you with a bite on the swell of his pecs, the imprint of his teeth rose red. Marc makes him cruel, but even that loses focus, sharp edges dulled with an afterglow, with the frenetic haze of Vale’s building orgasm. He’d cut this out piece by piece, scrubbed himself raw to forget—

Stupid. So fucking stupid.

The last ten years flash technicolor before Vale, and the marks on Marc’s neck too. He comes with a jerky shudder that zaps through his entire body. His bones go liquid, and the world trickles around him, along him, spotted dark. Vale distantly hears a keening groan that must come from himself.

In the quiet that follows, Marc blinks at him, bleary and tired and unworried. Tucks his head under his chin. They’re sticking together—sweat, come, over a decade of knowing. Vale holds him close with an arm over his shoulders, skimming over the knobs of Marc’s spine, and it’s almost like they were never hard on each other.

[lost-in-fandoms]

This has been something that's been living in my mind for a very long time. Sometimes, when things are hard, I write this in my head and it helps, so I thought I'd share. There's a bit of hurt before it goes to the comfort, but the comfort is there, I promise. This got long so you can read it on ao3 too

cw: non-sexual bathing, depression and a whole bunch of self-hatred

Daniel doesn't hear the door opening, but one minute he's alone, curled up under the blankets, and the next Max is sitting on the edge of the bed, running clothes still on. To be fair, Max might have been there for longer than one minute. Daniel hasn't been great at keeping up with time lately, keeps losing hours to naps and blank stares at walls. He's not been great at noticing Max either, sometimes feeling like he's living alone, even when Max is right beside him.

"Daniel."

Daniel opens his eyes again, hadn't even noticed he had closed them in the first place. Max sounds tired, careful, as he often does lately. It makes Daniel want to curl up tighter, shut him out harder, embarrassed and ashamed of being like this.

"Daniel, hey."

Did he close his eyes again? Max has one hand hovering near Daniel's cheek now, but he isn't touching. The last time Max had touched him without asking first when Daniel had been like this, just a hand on his shoulder, Daniel had flinched so hard he had kicked him off the bed.

Max has been sleeping in the guest room since, and the bed feels big and cold every night. Daniel is still glad Max is not touching him.

"Daniel."

Max's voice is firmer now, a frown on his face. It used to make Daniel feel worse, knowing he was upsetting him, but it's been a reality for so long he has learned to accept he's just made to make Max feel worse.

"Your therapist appointment is in two hours, Daniel, you should get up."

This time, Daniel makes the conscious decision to close his eyes. It doesn't matter how many hours he's been spending in this bed lately, he is always exhausted, and getting up sounds like way too much work. He doesn't want to get out of his blankets, doesn't want to have to sit up, to have to speak, to have to sit in their office to talk about his fucked up brain to a lady through a screen.

For a long moment, nobody says anything. Daniel is expecting Max to argue with him, to tell him he's being childish, pathetic, but Max doesn't.

It's worse when he simply sighs and gets up, leaving the room. It makes the chasm in Daniel's chest grow new teeth, gnawing at his lungs, breath stuttering in his throat. He didn't know he could feel more lonely.

He doesn't know what to do with this, with all the slick tar coating his insides, suddenly threatening to spill out, so he does what he's been doing lately and turns around, back to the bedroom door, and wills himself to sleep.

"Daniel."

Max's voice drags him out of the fog. He doesn't know how long it's been, but when he forces himself to open his eyes again, Max is crouching next to the bed, this other side now, still in his running clothes. Not long, then.

"I ran us a bath, will you come with me?" he asks. He doesn't look mad at Daniel for not speaking, doesn't look upset. He looks worried, and pleading. There are black shadows under his eyes. It's worse than him being angry.

It takes a long moment for Daniel to actually process the words, to filter them through the fog, but Max waits patiently. He always waits for Daniel, even when Daniel doesn't deserve it.

He doesn't want to get up, doesn't want to drag his limbs to motion, but he knows he stinks, knows his hair are a greasy mess, flattened on top of his head. He should. He doesn't want to.

"Please."

It's only a whisper, but it's impossible to miss in the quiet room. It pierces through Daniel's heart, his next breath coming out harsh and choked, his eyes closing on instinct. Even when he's deep in his own pain he can't forget how this is hurting Max too, but it's worse to see it so plainly, to hear the desperation in his voice. He doesn't know why Max hasn't left yet.

"You won't have to do anything," Max continues his pleading, more urgent now, "I will carry you, I will wash you, you just have to give me permission to touch you."

There was a time, before everything got this bad, when they were all over each other all the time, constantly touching, kissing, fucking. Now, Daniel can't remember the last time he even had wanted to come and his boyfriend is asking for permission to take care of him. He feels sick.

He hates the idea of Max seeing him like this, dirty and too skinny, but Max has never been good at letting things go and he doesn't have the energy to argue with him, nor the heart to hear his pleading, so he nods.

Relief shows so plainly on Max's face it's almost a physical blow.

He's still hesitant as he grabs Daniel's shoulder, helping him sit up, holding him still until the dizziness wanes, gently easing the t-shirt he's been sleeping in off. Daniel is gearing himself up to stand up when Max leans in closer, guiding Daniel's arms around his shoulder and his legs around his waist. It's not until his hands are under Daniel's thigh and he's heaving himself up that Daniel processes what is happening. A surprised gasp leaves his mouth, but Max only shushes him softly, walking towards the bathroom.

"I won't let you fall," he reassures, as if Daniel could ever be scared of that. As if Daniel had ever not been safe when in his hands.

In the bathroom, Max puts him down on the closed toilet seat. The lights are off and the curtains are drawn, but it's still much lighter than the bedroom, making Daniel squint his eyes almost all the way closed. The bath is full, the sweet smell of his favorite body wash already filling the room. There is an unlit candle on the edge of the tub, and it tugs on Daniel's heart, how deeply Max knows him, how he was aware that Daniel likes to have candles when he's in the bath, but doesn't like smells mixing when he's already so overwhelmed. How he left Daniel the unspoken option without pressuring him to take a decision with a direct question.

"Daniel." Max waits until Daniel is looking back at him before touching his shoulder, fingers warm on Daniel's clammy skin. "Is it okay if I come in with you?"

Daniel had thought it was implied, when Max had said he had ran them a bath, wonders if Max has changed his mind, now that Daniel is almost fully naked in front of him.

Some of his thoughts, who knows how much, he hasn't had control of his face in so long, must show, because Max frowns, other hand coming up to cradle Daniel's cheek.

"Daniel, I want to, but I don't want you to be uncomfortable. Can you please tell me? What is best?"

What is best? The best would be to go back four years and tell his old self to make different decisions. Go back two years and tell Max to make different decisions. Go back ten minutes and tell himself to fall back to sleep for a long long time.

He doesn't know how to answer an open question, one that requires more than a yes or no. He nods anyway.

"Yes, I can?" Max clarifies. Daniel doesn't understand why he looks so happy about it, but he nods again, and Max smiles, the lovely crinkly one that makes his cheek bunch up. It's a stab in his chest, realising how much he had been missing it, how long it had been since he had last seen it.

Max is efficient with his own clothes, stripping off and throwing them on the floor, but he's careful with Daniel, pulling him up and gently easing his underwear off, one leg at a time. Daniel finds himself looking at the wall over Max's back, refusing to look down at his own body, refusing to think about another time, when Max on his knees in front of him would have meant something completely different.

He lets Max help him into the bath too, water deliciously hot, scooting forward to let Max sit behind him.

For a second, the inch of space between them feels like a wall. Then Max sneaks a arm around his waist, pulling him against his chest, legs bracketing him.

Daniel lets himself go boneless, knowing Max will keep him upright.

He doesn't know how long they just stay like that, lost in the warmth of the water and the steady movement of Max's chest, but after a while he feels him shift behind him, reaching for something.

"I will wash your hair now, okay?"

Daniel nods, following Max's guidance to reposition himself slightly so that he has easier access to his hair, but keeps his eyes closed, brain for once blissfully quiet.

He doesn't know what he was expecting, but for sure not the smell of his favorite shampoo to fill his nostrils, aware that he had ran out weeks prior and hadn't bothered to buy more, using Max's 2in1 instead, uncaring of how frizzy it made his curls. He doesn't know when Max went to buy more, but it's yet another squeeze to his heart.

Max is slow with it, massaging Daniel's head, his firm and gentle fingers moving down towards his neck and shoulders too, working his tension away.

He holds a hand over Daniel's forehead when rinsing him, like Michelle does with the kids, and maybe once Daniel would have argued against the babying, but not now, not when he feels so deeply cared for.

He's not expecting to hear the click of another bottle opening, wasn't aware Max even knew of the existence of conditioner. He must make a sound, because he feels Max's chest move under him, as if Max is leaning forward to check his face.

"Okay?" he asks, fingers pausing in his hair.

Daniel hums, more sound than he's produced in hours, and it feels like a reward when Max presses a kiss on his wet shoulder.

"I called Vic, before," Max starts talking, hesitant and almost embarrassed, fingers twisting in Daniel's hair. Daniel doesn't know where this is going, but it's nice, to listen to Max's voice, his chest vibrating with it against his back, feeling closer than they had in weeks.

"I wanted to know, I..." Max huffs out half a laugh, self deprecating in a way he usually isn't. "I sent her pictures, of your hair things. I don't know why you have so many, but of course she knew, and..."

Daniel twists around, Max's fingers slipping from his hair, suddenly overcome with too much emotion to be able to deal with it like this. He bangs his knee against the side of the tub, his tense shoulders twinging with pain at the uncomfortable position, and he barely gets a glimpse of Max's spooked expression before he's burying his face in his shoulder, kissing the warm skin there.

He feels Max move, giving him more space to turn around, hands rubbing his back.

"I'm sorry," Max throws out in a rush, voice tense, and Daniel doesn't know what he's apologizing for, not when he's been so wonderful all this time. "I don't know, I..."

Max's voice breaks in sync with Daniel's heart.

"What have I done wrong?" Max begs, both keeping Daniel against him and pulling back, trying to look at him. "Daniel, please, if I..."

Daniel shakes his head grabbing at him to keep him close.

"No, it's good, you..." his voice is raspy from disuse and he can feel Max flinch in surprise when he hears it, but he pushes through, for once, unable to stand Max thinking he's done something wrong. "Thank you."

Tension bleeds out of Max's body as he cradles him close again, lips finding Daniel's hair, uncaring of the conditioner still there.

"I want," Max pauses, breathing out heavily, almost a sigh. "If I can do something to make you feel better, always I want to do it."

It splits Daniel's heart wide open, the candid way Max is able to say things like this, the steadiness with which he's never stopped caring for him, not even back when they weren't together, when they weren't even talking. He hopes Max can't feel the tear he can't stop on his already damp skin.

They breathe together for a long minute, while Daniel tries once again to process the impossibility of Max's love and Max holds him close, but it still feels too soon when his back starts screaming in protest, forcing him to turn back around.

They settle back in the previous position, but it feels like something dislodged in Daniel's chest. He feels lighter and more anchored at the same time, feels like Max's hands on his body are more real, like the fog in his brain has dispersed a little.

After rinsing the conditioner, careful hand still shielding Daniel's eyes, Max moves onto an hair mask.

"Vic said, of course she does not have your hair, but Vic said this was last," he explains, coiling Daniel's curls around his fingers, one by one, focused on the task as he would be on following the perfect racing line. "She said to do this, to make them right."

Daniel tries to imagine it, Max in the living room, or maybe on his run, or in the supermarket, calling his sister for advice on hair care. He knows he talks to his family most days, but it's different, to know he talks about him, about doing something to make Daniel feel good. A spike of shame curses through him, knowing that it means at least Victoria is aware of how much of a shitty boyfriend he's been lately, but for once it doesn't stay, quickly replaced by overwhelming affection. For Max, for asking, and for Victoria, for giving such careful and detailed instructions, clearly invested in making sure Max could do his best.

The water is cooling down by the time Max rinses off the hair mask and presses another kiss on Daniel's shoulder, arms wrapping around his waist once again.

"We can get out, or I can add hot water," he offers, lips brushing against Daniel's skin. Daniel almost asks him to stay, wanting to prolong the time spent in this little bubble of comfort, but their fingers are wrinkly and he knows his therapist appointment will be soon. He had thought about skipping it, earlier, just hide in bed and refuse to talk, but now that his brain is clearer he knows it would just make things harder.

When he moves, Max moves with him, keeping him steady as they both stand up, holding his hip as he rinses him with the shower head, knowing that Daniel doesn't like to just get out of the bath, even without him having to ask, taking his hand as they step out of the tub, offering him a towel.

Daniel doesn't fight when Max starts drying him, or when he squeezes the water out of his hair with another towel, or when he goes to the bedroom and comes back with clean clothes. He lets himself be taken care of, for once enjoying again being the center of Max's full attention.

It's only when Max steps back that Daniel notices how the hoodie Max is wearing is one of Daniel's, and it reminds him all over again how he's not the only one suffering from all the shit his brain is putting him through.

It makes his heart hurt, but at the same time he can't help but feel yet another wave of love for his boyfriend, who hasn't complained, hasn't left, has never made him feel guilty for any of this. His boyfriend, who so obviously misses him, enough to wear clothes that are too warm for him.

"Come here."

Max's head snaps up, surprise clear on his face, but when Daniel opens his arms he goes willingly, folding into himself a little to be able to fit against Daniel's chest.

"I love you," Max whispers it like a secret, hiding it in the folds of Daniel's sweater, and it makes Daniel wish he could fix his brain quickly, once and for all, just to not have to hear him so small ever again.

"I love you too."

He presses one kiss on Max's hair, then another.

He knows that when they'll break the hug, Max will probably try to convince him to have some food, then will sit in the living room pretending he isn't waiting for Daniel to be done with his session. He will try to make Daniel talk about it, go outside, eat dinner, brush his teeth, take his meds. He will be there, and stay there, even when Daniel kicks him to the guest room because he can't stand the touch of another human being, even when Daniel won't speak to him for hours and hours, too lost in his own head.

Daniel wants to say thank you, but it feels like there's so much he has to be thankful for, two little words wouldn't be enough. He hopes Max gets it anyway.

[poke-poke-poke]

Thinking about pkmn social media-- he's giving tips on how best to take care of pkmn that aren't too keen on water (goomy's there for enrichment)

...

his hoodie got soaked,,

[youling-the-ghost]

mornings with him – a ditch ficlet

Derek found comfort in his strange yet endearing morning routine. word count: 800

A ray of sunlight peeped through the curtains and cascaded itself onto Derek's bed, jolting him awake. The clock on the wall indicated that it was 6 AM. Derek groaned and dragged a hand down his face, cringing at the stubble that covered his chin—he felt like a teenager, all gangly limbs and awkward changes to his body that he hadn't quite grown accustomed to yet. It was comforting, in a way.

Derek sat up—or at least, tried to sit up. He almost succeeded before a pair of arms dragged him back into the bed, snuggling him into the pile of blankets and pillows. Derek let out a muffled cry of protest, but the arms didn't relent.

"Love," Derek said, the words buried in an airy laugh. "I need to make breakfast."

Titch groaned and leaned his body onto Derek's so that there was basically no space between their bodies, nestling his face into Derek's neck.

"Breakfast can wait..." he murmured. "I'm cold."

"It's August," Derek deadpanned. To be honest, he was overheating in Titch's arms and the blankets.

When Titch showed no signs of letting go, Derek sighed and resorted to his contingency plan; he grabbed the arms that held him hostage and pried them open, which proved to be quite a difficult task—despite what his stature might suggest, Titch was incredibly strong.

In the sliver of time that he bought himself, Derek lunged forward and dove out of the bed, landing on the wooden floor with a soft thud.

Titch mumbled some nonsense, incoherent and jumbled by a half-conscious brain, in protest. Derek planted an apologetic kiss on Titch's cheek and ruffled his blonde hair, which had a golden sheen from the sunlight that peeked through the curtains.

Derek snuck one last glance at his lover, whose face smoothed into a tranquil expression as he presumably returned to dreamland, and found himself smiling. He had come a long way, both of them had. It felt like just yesterday when Titch was lighting candle after candle, refusing to sleep until the first crack of dawn peeked through the night.

Derek grimaced at his reflection; his hair was sticking up in every direction, and he was in desperate need of a shave. He patted his hair in a vain attempt to school it, but the pile of curls immediately stuck back out again. Derek sighed in defeat and decided that he'd bother with his rebellious hair some other time, instead shifting his attention to everything else that needed fixing.

Shaving was something that caused Derek intense annoyance and euphoria in the strangest of oxymorons. The act itself was tedious, and if he had the option to, Derek would absolutely choose to never have to pick up a razor again.

But in a way, the razor in his hand and the shaving cream on his face represented progress that he never thought would be possible. It was a symbol of his growth, his comfort in his own body, which was beautiful despite all the tediousness.

Derek flinched as an improperly-angled movement caused a shallow gash across his cheek. He could do without all the blood that he had drawn in the process of learning this strange aspect of manhood, though.

The shaving cream washed off his face with a splash of water and Derek dragged a hand across his now-smooth skin. It felt like velvet between his fingers. Derek smiled. He was proud of himself.

The pink apron was an essential part of the cooking process, and this was only partially a joke.

Strangely enough, all of Derek's best and fluffiest flapjacks were made while he donned the frilly baby pink apron that James got Titch as a joke for Christmas one year. It was a strange phenomenon that was difficult to explain every time someone asked why he was working in the fields while wearing something that looked like it belonged to a Barbie playset.

Lost in thought about aprons, Derek barely noticed the arms that snaked around his waist.

Derek chuckled. "Good morning, love," he said without turning around. "So you finally woke up, huh?"

"Mornin'," Titch mumbled into Derek's shirt.

Sometimes it was hard to believe that the Titch currently clinging onto him like a koala on a eucalyptus tree was the same standoffish, emotionally closed-off Titch that he was first introduced to years ago.

Derek didn't bother shrugging Titch off. He didn't mind the physical contact; he quite enjoyed it, actually. The two stayed like that in silence, with the only noise in the room being the ambient sizzling of the pan and whirring of the range hood.

"I love you," Derek said as he placed a finished flapjack onto a plate.

"Yeah."

Derek knew that it was Titch's way of saying, "I love you too."

[teapot-of-tyrahn]

hello !!! i'm ...

➟ sugar !! i also go by charlie , echo , scott , timmy -- call me whatever's more comfortable for u !!

➟ i'm genderfluid, asexual and biromantic + greyromantic !!

➟ my CURRENT hyperfixations are on NINJAGO and the TRAFFIC LIFE SERIES !! if you're seeing THIS pinned introduction, TRAFFIC LIFE SERIES is currently the MAIN brainrot !

➟ i am a 🚸 MINOR ⚠️ !! please interact with this in mind !!!

➟ i have GAD [ generalized anxiety disorder ] , separation anxiety disorder , social anxiety disorder , selective mutism , depression , DPD [dependent personality disorder] , ARFID [ avoidant/restrictive food intake disorder ] , and involuntary age regression ! though these topics probably won't be discussed at length , please keep them in mind when interacting with me !! at times i may go NON-VERBAL or slip into LITTESPACE , and i ask you be patient with me at those times, thank you !

➟ this is a FANDOM SIDEBLOG - my main blog is @sugrx !! here is where i post FANFICTION, FANART, ANALYSISES , AUS, USERBOXES,,, etc !!

➟ basic ! queerphobes, xenophobes, misognists, sexists, ableists, racists, terfs, maps, pedos, fatphobes, etc - any and all bigots of ANY shape or form !! ➟ nsfw / fetish / kink blogs !! again , i am a MINOR , and though i'm fine with having mutuals who ARE 18+ , i'd rather avoid 18+ content , thank you !!

[kaebedom-me]

in which gojo cant seem to get his shit together when he's in front of the person he likes

synopsis: gojo tries his best to impress a regular he's been crushing on, too bad he can't keep his shit together long enough to make a proper latte

cw: gojo x reader, the babygirlfication of gojo satoru, ooc!gojo, he's actually not ooc my personal hc is that he gets real flustered in front of the person he really likes that's why, equally flustered and shy!reader, fem!reader, fluff, slightly proofread but not really, this is part of @freyzrc's very cute very good cafe au series! so please support the original creator!

word count: 1544

a/n: im actually scheduled for another DisappearanceTM but i 🥺 anyway, if you've been wondering where I've been I'm actually neck deep in jjk hell hence! i present to you, tumblr, this fic!!! (more hcs and context after the fic if you're interested in my ramblings)

Gojo, despite his very pretty (self-proclaimed) appearance, actually prefers to work the morning shift during the times when the café was not a bar. It’s definitely not because he’s more of a morning person, it’s also definitely not because he hates alcohol. Also, it’s certainly absolutely positively NOT because of a pretty girl that comes in every once in a while, to grab a latte at a time where it (in his opinion) should be an inappropriate time to get coffee. But it’s favourite part of the day anyway, he always finds himself looking forward to it despite the irregularity of the girl’s visit.

“Ah! Welcome!” Itadori’s voice chimed in, snapping Gojo out of his daydreaming.

“Welcome!” Gojo exclaimed, too. He turned around just in time to catch sight of the girl he was daydreaming about coming to the counter.

To say he was a little excited was an understatement, because Gojo had almost dropped the cup that he was drying to the floor, earning a snort from Geto who’d been standing next to him the entire time. Gojo turned to glare at him for a split second before returning his attention to you.

“The usual, right?” Itadori asked cheerily.

“Actually, could I get it hot today?” you asked softly.

“Of course! That’ll be out to you in a jiffy!”

You gave Itadori a smile while tucking away your wallet. As you walked away, you glanced behind the counter to note who was on shift. Geto gave you a kind nod before whispering something to Itadori.

Before you could get too far away Itadori raised his voice a little to catch your attention. “Um! Miss! Excuse me! I’m so sorry to bother but we’re a little short staffed today, would you mind waiting here for your coffee?”

He asked you so nicely you weren’t able to say no, it’s not like you would’ve in the first place, though. You approached the end of the counter, where they usually put the drinks before serving.

Geto gave you an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Megumi-kun’s out with the dogs and I’m just about to take my break, so I really hope you don’t mind.”

You nodded; you understood you told him.

“Thank you so much, hun’! It’s nice seeing you again.” Geto beamed, and right there you swear you died while you were on your way here because this can’t be happening.

Geto quickly excused himself and went to the back, leaving you flustered.

Gojo was by the machines pulling a shot when Geto so kindly passed by him to pat him on the butt. The daggers he had been glaring at him had Geto trying not to laugh the entire time.

When you noticed it was your favourite white-haired barista making your coffee today you nearly choked on your own spit. Surely, you definitely died on the way here today, that was the only reason why the stars had aligned so perfectly today.

By the time you snapped back to your senses, Gojo was practically right in front of you assembling the drinks. You were way too nervous to look directly at him but you felt it would’ve been rude to look away considering you just made eye contact with him.

You awkwardly gave him a smile, and he returned it stiffly. “Uh, nice weather, huh?”

“Yeah!” You answered.

Curses! “Nice weather”??? That’s all he could come up with??? The only time he gets to talk to you outside of the usual short conversation while you ordered and he had to mess it up??? A disgrace! He’s The Gojo Satoru! How could he have been so-!!

It was then Gojo slightly slipped up and spilled some of the milk from the pitcher. “Shit,” he cursed.

He shouldn’t have looked up. But he did, and he made direct eye contact with you. GOD! STUPID! How did he mess it up this badly! Gojo wanted to curl into a ball and hide under the stupid cabinets right now.

“I usually don’t fuck up this badly-”

“Oh!!! Um! It’s ok! Take your time,” you tried and offered him your best smile.

Huh? HUH???? Did he seriously, seriously accidentally say that out loud? In front of you??? Of all people?????

Gojo cleared his throat as he felt the heat rush up into his cheeks. He has to save this somehow. “I, uh- Erm, is there any particular latte art you like?”

Taken off guard, you shook your head. “Anything’s good really!”

FUCK. What now?? He just kind of made conversation with you, should he continue?? Should he give you some options? A heart? What?! No! That’s too obvious! A swan? A rose? C’mon, Gojo, think! You can do better than those basic fucking starter latte art. Maybe he should drop dead and die, there’s no saving this interaction at this point.

“Maybe?” You quietly piped in. “Those plant looking ones? I think they look nice.”

A tulip? A tulip! Gojo’s got this! This is easy! Tulips are so easy! And he’s the best latte art maker in this whole damn café!

“Sure!” He puffed up his chest and answered as cheerily as he can, trying to hype himself up. If this goes well, maybe, MAYBE, he’d deem himself worth enough to ask for your number.

A tulip, a tulip, a tulip. A very simple and easy design. Yes, Gojo can make it with his eyes closed. He can even make it more complicated and intricate, that’ll surely impress you enough to want to give him your number. Super simple tulips are, he’s been making them since forever.

So why, why, WHY, is his hand shaking so badly. No!! No!!!! He has to do this perfectly! Oh, God, he can feel you looking at him and waiting. You’ve been waiting for a while too, he knows this! But God damn it, Megumi didn’t have to come in at this time to remind him that you’ve been waiting for a while. No! Focus! He can do this! Make good latte art, get pretty girl’s number!

Gojo ignored Itadori calling Megumi over to the back. He breathed in and let his hands worked his magic. This was easy! It’s practically muscle memory at this point! He’s got this!

Make good latte art, get pretty girl’s number!

Gojo must’ve been too excited because he fucking accidentally poured too much of the stupid milk into the damn cup too quickly and royally fucked whatever art he was about to make.

Gojo wanted to scream.

“Oh, um, I can still take that,” you piped in.

Oh, fucking fuck, you were watching him the entire time too. Gojo wanted to cry.

“No, no, I’ll remake it-”

“No! It’s ok! I don’t mind,” you said again. “I really don’t mind.”

You were truly an angel sent from heaven. How are you so forgiving and cute?? He can never show his face again the next time you come in.

“Ah, at least let me draw something on it to make up for it,” Gojo meekly offered.

Too shy to say no, you let and then watched him shuffle a little to the side to reach for the chocolate syrup.

Gojo made quick work of drawing Shiro into the latte you ordered. It wasn’t something too impressive but he knew at least you’d like it considering how much time you spend with Megumi’s dog whenever you came in.

“Enjoy,” he sheepishly muttered to you while he slid the coffee towards you.

Curse that stupid!!! Suguru!!!! For making you, of all people, stand by the counter to watch him work.

He watched as your eyes lit up at the little doodle he made. “Sorry I’m kinda off my game today,” he lamely excused himself. “It’s not the tulip you wanted but I hope it’s enough, I swear I’m a killer with latte art.”

You nodded, still eyeing the little Shiro on your cup, absent-mindedly you said, “It’s ok, maybe next time!”

Gojo perked up at that. The fact that you were still willing to come back!!! Ah, that almost brought tears to his eyes. “Next time for sure,” he promised.

Realising what you had just heard you snapped back to look at him. He was smiling gently down at you now and your heart almost burst out of your chest right there. You nodded and offered him another smile before scuttering away to find a seat.

おまけ

“Oh my God, that was so painful to watch,” Geto could hardly contain his laughter.

“Hey!!! Whose fault was it, huh!! I could’ve made the best damn art in my entire career!! And you!!! You fucked me over,” Gojo whisper shouted at Geto while the other staff slowly made their way back to the front.

“You screwed it up yourself,” muttered Megumi. “It was funny to watch though, I’m glad we took the shorter route back today.”

“Yeah, the Gojo Satoru fumbling so badly,” chimed Geto.

Itadori walked over to where Gojo was and offered him the cloth by the sink. “Aw, I think you did your best, senpai! Next time! You’ll make the best damn latter art in your entire career, I’m cheering for you!”

Gojo snatched the cloth from Itadori and glared at his friends before wiping down the mess he made. 

so as mentioned, my personal hc is that gojo gets really flustered and shy when he's in front of the person his likes that's why he's like that in the fic uwu

it's just a simple cafe au with your favourite jjk boys

according to @freyzrc the bar becomes a bar after hours so your faves are able to pick and choose what shifts they prefer to work and when

i say your faves but really its up to you (read: me) if i want to see who at when and where lMAO

in my head, if i were to make this into a series it'd be like a dating sim with different routes depending on your fave that you're after

but also, there's no particular order in which events happen because I'm really writing this as a one off HAHAHA

if you're curious though, you can read it as a "best moments compilation" thing, but if you're on the other routes, the events of this route then not something that happened? it's basically kind of like the timeline branches out and there's multiple different universes within this universe

this route is gojo x reader + geto x reader with a hint of satosugu

this was intended to be a gift to the original artist so uwu reader is the way they are because of that

gojo does crush on geto here in this route but his brain actually doesn't process his feelings for geto because he dug himself a very deep friendzone hole. it's very tragic :/

[stardestroyer81]

Can I offer you a nice transfem sheep in this tryin' time? 💙🏳️‍⚧️✨

[britneyshakespeare]

Had the extremely upsetting experience of a mutual of like 6 years going off on me for occasionally making posts about supporting Harris because apparently that makes me a g n cide denier who refuses to learn and grow, with all of my views just being assumed not even from what I've told them I believe or what I've posted before, but just because I DON'T post particularly the kind of things they THINK I should be. When I pointed out how much they were just completely assuming about stuff I'd never talked to them about, I was told it doesn't matter what I do in real life or "care" about if I simply disagree with their conclusion and vote for her anyway. Like they were absolutely not sorry for the level of maliciousness they not just assumed of my character, but for some reason thought appropriate to bring directly to me before unfollowing me. No apology whatsoever for how discomforting or upsetting that might be and certainly no acknowledgment that I could disagree with them and still be a good person. I just got another even longer rant about how they fundamentally can't fuck with me because of this one thing, no matter WHAT else I do in my real life (which I pointed out that they do not know), and how I'm directly supporting fascism.

Like seriously what is it about Tumblr that makes people think they know someone based off of occasional posts? There were just such DEEP assumptions they were making of me and going off of very little or absolutely nothing. Around the time I first became mutuals with that person I used to express my personality and beliefs and talk about what was going on in my life a lot more openly, but I've significantly scaled back on doing that in many ways for many reasons. One of my major ones is privacy and the way I've had strangers outside my followers and following circles just find random things I say and dogpile me for it. I was fundamentally changed after some T Fs did that to me like 3 years ago. I also just didn't have many conversations w that person anymore (I message people in general on here like 10x less than I did circa 2018-2019, which I'm somewhat sorry about!). My point is to say I think this person felt comfortable assuming that they knew me, especially who I am in 2024 at the age of 25, much better than they actually did.

One of the specific things they accused me of was being afraid of learning and growing (because I don't perform social media activism on here like they think I should). Like AFRAID to take criticism. When again I've never received criticism from them or had to respond to any criticism on here before as pertaining to my views on... well, absolutely any of the issues they accused me of not caring about. They essentially treated it as if the only thing in the world I cared about was the US election and characterized me as the most out-of-touch liberal they could possibly imagine, because I'm not "pushing" Kamala Harris to be better (Oh?? Should I do that on here?? Does she read my blog??).

And most hypocritically what they said was that I only *sometimes* *vaguely* post pro-Harris things (I often post like 5 or fewer things in a day though?). But here's the kicker. "Because I know I'll get shit for it. And rightfully so."

Really????? Not a single person, anon or not, in my messages or in a tagged post or anything, has ever given me shit before for saying who I'm voting for. I'm actually NOT afraid of "getting shit" for that opinion, I just don't start fights with people who are anti-voting. And why should I??? I genuinely don't believe in trying to change the minds of strangers on the internet about that sort of thing. I'm just not confrontational about it; that is so not the same thing as being "afraid of getting shit." I'm not posting ENOUGH about my support for Harris, therefore I'm afraid. But therefore they can also make all these assumptions about me being their strawman for an ignorant Harris supporter.

I'm afraid of getting shit but I still post anyway? But if I weren't afraid of getting shit I'd be posting a lot more?? This is ALL based on their assumptions of what my blog *should* look like, based on what I really and truly believe. My level of posting every now and then is an accurate gauge of my feelings on complex, sensitive, global issues. Because I'm voting for the Democratic presidential candidate and I'm ok sharing pretty much just that little glimpse of myself.

I really don't think that person knows just how inappropriate and insulting that is to just say all of that to me. Like they really know what's going on in my head. Their first message began and ended with like "I'm sorry I love you I just can't take it anymore" but they clearly weren't sorry enough to try and be more respectful to me, and they didn't love me enough not to default to extremely ungenerous assumptions and attacking me based off of those instead of any actual words I've said that they take issue with.

Online radicalization is real and it's not necessarily bad because your political views can start to fall well out of the contemporary Overton window. The way you find it appropriate to treat people whose views, however common, seem to fundamentally misalign with yours... that does matter. You can't just assume the worst of everyone and then act on that in how you approach them as individuals. And then be shocked that you don't stay friends with them. You can't be confrontational with someone about an issue you've never had an honest conversation about, and then expect them to take your bad faith in them as reasonable well-meaning criticism.

I'm afraid of criticism??? I'm afraid of criticism. No I'm not. This person and I have never had an issue before where they criticized me and I got harshly defensive. It was ALL projection. The entire tone of their messages was as if all their anti-voting posts recently were somehow in communication with the occasional go-vote-for-Harris posts that I make. That's not a conversation. I don't post for your satisfaction. I don't post in "response" to my mutuals I disagree with. I just post what's on my mind, sometimes, about some things. I really again can't stress enough how baffled I am by this

[icewindandboringhorror]

boy in silly sitting positions compilation

[raspberry-vinaigrette]

abelscott enjoyers wake up i finally got to the prompt im using to shill my abelscott propaganda

read here. if u dare

[necrotic-nephilim]

Fandom: DCU (Comics) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon & Dick Grayson Characters: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake (DCU), Alfred Pennyworth, Barbara Gordon Additional Tags: Omega Dick Week (DCU), Omega Dick Grayson, Alpha Bruce Wayne, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Claiming Bites, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Court of Owls, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Father/Son Incest, Past Brainwashing, Hurt/Comfort, Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent, Emotional Sex, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Pre-Flashpoint (DCU) Summary:

When Dick disappeared years ago without a trace, Bruce had almost given up hope of ever finding him. And even when Bruce rescues him from the Court of Owls, the transition of Dick relearning how to be a normal person isn't an easy one.

Especially when the one thing Dick wanted from Bruce is the one thing Bruce would've never dreamed of. Dick wants Bruce to claim him as his mate.

-

Omega Dick Week 2024 - Day 2: Claiming/Submission Bite

[voretash]

regardless of how anyone feels about the tone of the old gortash letters vs the new, as a bisexual male player, it just kind of hurts that they walked back on queer implications while leaving in the letters that involve the same character's relationships with women. it doesn't really matter WHY gortash was writing that way to a man, manipulative or not-- it was inarguably queer in that it was something a straight man would not say to another man, whereas his potential queer relationship to the dark urge is purely subtextual. to queer men, spelling it out does matter.

if the old letters hadn't included the queer implications in the first place, the new letters would have been fine and tonally fit the writing in a different direction than the original ones. but they were queer, and it's somewhat cruel to give players a piece of an ability to see themselves reflected in the world and then take it away. i'm not calling the devs homophobic and i really doubt the intentions behind the change were centered around the queerness, but i think the oversight on how it would come off to remove queer content is a mistake. i would feel the same way if the changed content centered a character i didn't care about or didn't like-- i think you have to stand by your original commitment to queer players.

i also think it's somewhat unintentionally cruel in the sense that this content that i originally read as unambiguously queer, that i felt happy to casually come across, is now the center of discourse in which queer people can be talked down to and called delusional for desiring to see themselves as initially reflected in the game. again, regardless of which tonal direction you prefer overall, i'm just trying to get across why walking it back after release feels bad to a lot of queer players.

[angelpuns]

Hello Angel, I wanted to apologize sincerely. I didn't know that doing what I'm doing was really rude and annoying. The person I send the fan story (kid Leo au) accidentally had already reached to me (I had forgot to do it anonymous) and "explained" me that what I'm doing is so inappropriate and I'm just doing it for the likes in other people's blogs and using their own content instead of being original and do my own, and also told me to not do it ever again. That you are only being nice because you didn't had how to reached out to me in private to talk about it. I just summarized all the things said.

I am really sorry, I didn't thought it was that bad. And I want to thank you for being a really nice person. I also thank the other person for letting me know about it. Once again I apologize 😔

-🌸

Sorry this took so long for me to respond to, I had to sit back and think a lot because hearing that someone said that to you actually made me so mad-

I LOVE READING THE STORY, LET ME SAY THAT FIRST, I GENUINELY ENJOY IT SO MUCH AND I GET SO SO SO EXCITED WHEN YOU SEND ME ASKS CAUSE IT'S SO SO SO FUN TO READ-

I personally LOVE when people send me asks like that, and I think it was a real shitty thing for them to say that to you. I understand why some people may not like it for their own content, but I enjoy it a lot.

You are not being rude at all to me, I promise. I genuinely enjoy reading your fan stories so much!

I'll be honest, I am not a nice person. If I didn't like it or didn't want people to do this sort of thing, I would have never answered your asks. When I get asks I don't like/don't want to answer I delete them (which tbh I don't think is me being an asshole I think it's my right-)

I promise it's not just me being nice, I am not that sort of person lmao-

SORRY IF THIS IS ALL SUCH A CONFUSING RESPONSE I AM JUST GETTING VERY MAD ON YOUR BEHALF BECAUSE EWIJRGIJFREJI I LOVE READING YOUR FAN STORIES AND YOU HAVE NOTHING TO APOLOGIZE FOR!!!

aLSO ANOTHER THING BUT THE FACT THAT IT'S FOR THE SPINOFF COMIC MAKES ME SO SO SO HJAPPY BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE A TON OF IDEAS FOR THE SPINOFF AND SEEING THAT I INSPIRED SOMEONE TO WRITE ABOUT IT IS SO FLATTERING AND AMAZING AND MAKES ME SAPPY FEEL GOOD

if the person that said that is reading this, they are in fact an asshole. And it really isn't any of their damn business <33333

TLDR: I DON'T THINK IT'S RUDE AT ALL IT'S ACTUALLY SO SO SO NICE TO GET YOUR FAN STORIES AND THIS PERSON IS AN ASSHOLE FOR TELLING YOU OFF

again sorry if this is very very rambly or whatever I just got like actually so pissed off on flower-anon's behalf while thinking about this-

[sage-nebula]

I wish more people understood that Sega / Sonic Team carefully scrutinizes and approves every single issue of the IDW comics before they get printed and release, down to characters' facial expressions.

This isn't like the wild west of the 90s where people like Penders were allowed to do whatever they wanted. Scripts and storyboards are sent to Sega for approval multiple times for every issue. And the IDW team has to make the requested changes before it can print. One example that has been specifically mentioned was when Amy hugged Sonic in the "Chao Races and Badnik Bases" arc. Evan originally drew a little blush on Sonic's cheeks. Sega said "no" because Sonic doesn't show that much vulnerable emotion, and so Evan had to revise the panel to remove the blush. The oversight is that finite. Absolutely NOTHING gets put in the IDW comics that is against Sega or Sonic Team's ideas for their characters and brands. Like it or hate it, but that's simple fact.

So when you hear, "Sega wants to bring the comics and games (and potentially the shows) under the same canon umbrella" — yeah, it makes sense! Because while Sonic Team might not be crafting the comics themselves, they ARE overseeing their creation and are approving every story beat and facial expression contained within. They know exactly what is happening in the comics, are actively working to keep them in line with the current vision for the Sonic brand, etc. If they're working to keep them in line with their current vision for the games anyway, why NOT tie them all together? Especially when the comics have helped bring a new generation of kids to the franchise (similarly to how the movies did) while also being compliant with the games (unlike the movies). It just makes sense.

I understand that people who are perhaps more used to stories about what the Archie comics were like in the 90s might have reservations. But for good or for ill, the IDW comics are a completely different beast, despite having a lot of the same crew. I'm not saying Sega are overbearing evil overlords who don't let the IDW team have any fun (personally I think it's clear the team has a lot of fun working on the comics), because hell, they let a zombie pandemic arc happen. But I am saying that nothing that happens in the comics happens without Sega's express approval, right down to whether Sonic is allowed to blush when Amy hugs him or not. You still don't have to like the comics, everyone has different tastes and that's cool. But just know that the comics are Sega-approved panel by panel, so if you have an issue, take it up with them. Ultimately, they're the ones who get final say.